


Abundance of Violence

by SunsetSouvenir



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, alternative ending to 1X8 brought to you by yet another rewatch, okay its not actually very graphic but im tagging that just to be safe, this wasn't meant to be second person pov yet here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetSouvenir/pseuds/SunsetSouvenir
Summary: “Don’t pull it.”So, naturally, you did the first thing your mind thought of, you pulled the knife up and out. The crimson blade held firmly between your palms glistens high up in the air and beneath you, she screams, writhes, clutches.And then, you’re pushing your hands down onto her abdomen, fingers sliding and slipping across hers in some sort of desperate attempt.Jesus, you botched this one big time, no pun intended.Alternative ending to 1X8.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57





	Abundance of Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on Richard Siken's Snow and Dirty Rain.
> 
> This is very roughly edited so please point out any mistakes if you find them!
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Don’t pull it.”_

So, naturally, you did the first thing your mind thought of, you pulled the knife up and out. The crimson blade held firmly between your palms glistens high up in the air and beneath you, she screams, writhes, clutches.

You revel in it, for just one sick moment. You _did_ that.

And then, you’re pushing your hands down onto her abdomen, fingers sliding and slipping across hers in some sort of desperate attempt.

But she’s still thrashing around and you’re still straddling her and her blood is so warm between your fingers and--

She looks up at you, eyes all brown and big and afraid. Jesus, you botched this one big time, no pun intended.

But then, still from under you, she asks you to bring her a towel and it takes your brain a minute to snap back into action, to pull away from the red fountain, still bubbling. You hadn’t even noticed when she’d stopped squirming. Hadn’t noticed her go all soft and still. And yeah, you’re unnerved. She is far too calm and quiet, you think, as you numbly float into her bathroom and reach for the white- no, not the black, she is still an asshole, after all- towel.

Returning to the scene of the crime is, as always, worse than leaving it. You step over the glass shards and champagne puddles you’d poured earlier, except now you don’t feel triumphant anymore. Her silk sheets are turning redder by the minute and she’s just lying there, holding herself together, watching you.

You stop your advance and think that rationally, yes, you should run. Run far and hide well. It seems that somewhere along the line, you forgot that she’s the huntress here, not you. And you already know that _of_ _course_ there will be consequences to face for this because even if you’d wanted to dethrone her, wanted to claim the title of huntress for yourself, you hadn’t even managed to kill her. Did you even try? Yeah, you should definitely run while you still can.

With a sharp sigh, you take the last few steps towards her and push the towel down over the wound, watching the red bloom from the bottom up. Her eyes don’t leave your face as she pulls her hands out from under the towel, and you feel the weight of her gaze, but you don’t look, can’t look. She puts her left hand atop yours first, you know because her thumb drags an electrifying line across your knuckle, and then adds her right. You look at the mountain of browning fingers atop the white and copper towel mass and you feel… numb.

“Eve.” She breathes and, oh God, she sounds bad. You remind yourself that she’s probably playing it up, trying shine a spotlight on your guilt because that’s exactly what she would do, just to mess with you. Not that it matters. You drag your eyes to hers and don’t bother to mask your concern. You do, however, briefly contemplate stabbing her again when she smiles up at you in return.

In an infuriating mixture of reprimand and praise, she tells you, “that was not so good, Eve. But, I am impressed, really.”

“I am going to need you to help me fix this, though. And fast.” That cold, glossy, look covers her eyes again and you’re suddenly nauseous with fresh dread because this is not going well and yeah, you _really_ messed up. “Eve? Hello, I’m the one _stabbed_ here, remember?” Is she… joking? With her dried blood still stuck under your fingernails, you want to leave, or maybe just scream.

“Okay, let’s get you to a car.” You hear yourself say, and it’s strange the way you don’t feel the words leave your mouth at all. You feel far away from yourself, like you’re watching a really bad movie. You watch your arms reach towards her shoulder slowly until she pulls you right back to the moment with one little word.

“Car?”

You don’t know what to tell her, don’t understand why she’d be confused, but you grant her one pass and attribute it to blood loss. “Yes. To take you to the hospital.”

“Eve! No, no hospitals. They will find me that way. You need to do it.” And although she looks pensive for a moment, she doesn’t pause long enough for you to inquire further. “I will help you,” she offers confidently, definitively, and you think that’s the worst version of please you’ve ever heard. But, more than anything, what you really hate is the way your fingers twitch and prickle, just a tiny bit, with anticipation.

After playing scavenger hunt throughout her flat and finding, admittingly only at her instruction, little medical prizes in all of the little hidey holes, here you are. You are somehow sat on her bed again, and it makes sense, you suppose, because she hasn’t moved. The rational part of your mind reminds you that it’s not normal to spend this much time in an international assassin’s bed, regardless of the circumstances and context. But, frankly, nothing you’d done today had been rational, so there was no sense in listening now.

So, you cut her sweater off first.

She holds her breath while you snip the scissors all the way up and blows out as her shirt falls open, crime scene on full display. Her bleeding has slowed down significantly, you note, taking everything in. The expanse of her abdomen is coated in a grimy mixture of sweat and blood- both dried and fresh. You sit still beside her, hands frozen in your lap, waiting.

Your brain is still not working quite right, mind only serving to provide factual observations on a silver platter. Sunlight catches on some shiny, ostentatious, garment you tore from Villanelle’s wardrobe. Outside, a car honks. Your hands feel dry. And, of course, there’s still the gaping hole in Villanelle’s abdomen, heart-side.

“You need to clean it first. It will hurt me, a lot, but you will need to keep going. Starting again is worse.” You reach for the bottle of alcohol and look to her, eyebrows raised, for confirmation. She gives one sharp nod before balling her fists in the sheets and clenching in anticipation. You spin the cap around three times before it falls off into your hand and you put it down, somewhere among the spread of supplies. You move forward and bring the bottle closer to the wound and, right before you begin to tip it, Villanelle calls out.

“Wait,” she says, and while you would never say so out loud, you think she sounds worried. You watch her struggle to push herself up on an elbow, grunting and wincing all the while. And, even though you are really quite impatient at this point, you listen. You don’t move, stop breathing even, and stare dumbly at her hand extended out towards you, greedy.

Oh, it clicks, and you place the neck of the liquor bottle against her palm, feeling the liquid slosh as she curls her fingers tightly. Fascinated and disturbed, you watch Villanelle drink the clear liquid. She doesn’t move the bottle from her lips, just takes a swig, and then another, and then another. The last sip is smaller, less chipmunk cheeked, yet still impressive. Internally, you groan.

She yanks the bottle from her mouth and holds it back out to you, shaking lightly from pain or alcohol or maybe both, you’re not sure. You wrap both your hands around the bottle and free it from her grasp so she can lay back down. Idly, you wonder if maybe you should move her to the bathroom before splattering overpriced vodka across her and her bed but, upon further inspection of your current situation, you push the thought aside. So, when, after she’s re-balled her fists in the sheets and squeezed, she breathes out the word _okay_ , you pour.

Her scream is not really a scream this time, the noise muffled and distorted through her clenched teeth and sealed lips. The sound flips a switch, hard and fast, and your brain is suddenly buzzing back to life, so wide awake. It’s almost painful, and a part of you wants to cover your ears to block out the strangled sound, both loud and ugly. Persevering, you pour until a fourth of the bottle remains full and Villanelle is panting like a dog in the puddle of sheets, blood, and alcohol.

And then you’re grabbing the neat packet with the needle and string and those stupidly small scissors and the fancy scissor tweezer things, and it’s all super precise. You rip the packaging open and don’t, no, don’t, think about how Villanelle managed to acquire these supplies. Instead, you begin working, confidently bullshitting your way through the first suture.

With the blood and sweat washed away, the wound looks less. Less angry, less red, less wide, less intimidating. You push the little fishhook needle through one side of Villanelle’s skin and watch the shiny tip come out on the underside of her skin, gleaming. Rather than risk reaching your fingers into the wound, it is still intimidating after all just _less._ You reach for the scissor tweezers that you know must have a more appropriate name. Metal clinks against metal as you clamp the needle at its hilt and push it up, through the bottom of Villanelle’s skin, across the canyon of still bubbling blood below. Above, you snip the string and tie the ends together, pulling only until both sides of skin connect.

And then, you do it all again, the poking and pulling and knotting. You lay the needle and remaining string aside and reach for the liquor bottle once more. You flick your wrist to pour and Villanelle hisses, twitching tightly. You look at her then, moving your eyes up towards her face for the first time since starting. Beads of sweat collect on her temples, and the bun her hair had been tied up into is hanging on by a thread, and when she opens her eyes, they’re watery and far away. And you are so, so, sorry.

After several deep breaths, Villanelle pushes herself up on both elbows before looking pointedly at you, the plea for help evident. You are up and moving around her immediately, snaking an arm behind her back and pushing her up to a fully seated position. She breathes heavy, hot breaths on you before you pull away to help her stand.

Once up on her feet, Villanelle seems to get a second wind, needing nearly no help removing the remnants of her soaked sweater from her body and running, out loud of course, through a list of packing essentials while you wrap the gauze bandage across her abdomen. You don’t dare interrupt, don’t dare ask where she is going. You do all you can; you cling desperately to her earlier promise of _not_ murdering you.

Once you’re satisfied with your work, you take one large step backward, and Villanelle looks down, fingers ghosting across the mound of gauze and tape.

Soft eyes meet yours as she says to you, delicately, “thank you.”

A still beat passes and before you know it, she’s all action again, pulling a duffel bag and a navy-blue sweater from her wardrobe. She doesn’t look to you this time, doesn’t signal for help, and you resent the way that she somehow still manages to wrestle herself into the garment. You hear her huff and feel her shoot you a triumphant _told-you-so_ look as she breezes past you, bag slung over her right shoulder. You’re still frozen in the center of the room, eyes tracking her as she goes through drawers and cabinets, as the bag slowly sinks into a V, pushed down by stacks of euros and assorted weapons inside.

You watch dumbstruck as she stuffs the bag full, topping it off with some pieces of clothing, for good measure. She has five times the amount in your savings account, at least, hanging from her shoulder like its nothing and the sun has somehow not sunk below the horizon yet, and you’re so far past tired now and—

And she turns on you then, eyes wide, open, almost honest. Under her gaze, you feel like a summer sunset, like tinsel in a tree, like dripping wax. You feel brave, and so you ask, “where are you going?”

She takes a tentative step back in your direction before answering. “Eve, The Twelve, they are coming for me. I can’t stay here. This is one of the first places they will look, of course. Are you coming?” The way she asks, so nonchalantly, as if this was something already previously decided upon, shoots through you and heat zings from your brain down to nestle deeply in your stomach. You don’t respond, just blink back at her, and you swear you see her face contort minutely in annoyance.

“You don’t have to come with me, of course. Thank you for…” she trails off, gesturing vaguely to her midriff before unzipping her bag and pulling out a generous sum of euros. “Here, take this at least, to make it back to England.” She extends her arm and you reach out to meet her halfway, squeezing the colorful bills between your fingers. Your own arm slumps back to your side as she pulls her hand away and turns. As an afterthought of sorts, she glances back over her shoulder and reminds you, “be careful, Eve.”

You think about everything. A cursed weekend call into work, croissants from Elena, Bill bleeding out to a techno beat, the arguments with Niko. But, also, catlike eyes and honey hair, a bullet like a kiss shot at your feet, a silky dress and namesake perfume, an honest confession that she thinks about you all the time, too.

Your eyes drift to the stack of Euro’s in your hand, and you _know._

She’s 4 steps away, rapidly approaching the flat’s front door, when you’ve made up your mind. You take three big, stretching, steps and fall in stride next to her.

“You better have phenomenal dinner plans, I’m starving.”

She grins at you, all razor-sharp ivory, and says, “I will find you the very best _jambon beurre_ they have to offer at the train station.”


End file.
